It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas
by astudyinotters
Summary: This is my gift for the Just Johnlock Christmas Exchange on Tumblr, so swimmingbirdrunningrock, this one is for you! After a case on Christmas Eve, John and Sherlock muse on the importance of Bing Crosby, Hot Chocolate, and Mistletoe.


**This is my present for Tumblr user swimmingbirdrunningrock for the just john lock christmas exchange. I hope that they enjoy their gift, and that everyone has a Happy Holiday Season. :)**

* * *

><p>It started with a phone call, Lestrade's mobile playing a very tinny version of Bing Crosby's "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" to notify the Detective Inspector of a lead for his latest case. As soon as Lestrade had ended the call and pocketed his mobile, Sherlock had shooed everyone out of the ir flat, prematurely ending their annual Christmas Eve party, and was disappearing down the stairs with a flurry of his great coat, yelling at John to, "hurry up! The game was on!"<p>

John had no clue just how Sherlock knew exactly where to go or what was happening, but he stumbled obediently out the door after him, hastily tugging on his shoes and buttoning his coat, taking care to make sure his gun was tucked away safely inside the waistband of his jeans.

By the time the case was wrapped up, the culprits all dressed in ill-fitting Santa suits - their arms and legs all trussed up in red wrapping ribbon- John has heard the blasted song six times. When Lestrade pushes the rag-tag band of thieving Santa impersonators into his cop car, the song begins again, and John can't help but shudder as Bing Crosby starts to sing. Again.

"Not a fan of Christmas carols, eh, John? Lestrade asked, reaching over to clap John merrily on the shoulder.

John forced a smile and shrugged his shoulder. "Cor, mate. I dunno-"

"John loves Christmas carols," Sherlock interrupted, turning his sharp, verdigris eyes to watch as Greg's smile fades and John fidgets uncomfortably. Sherlock's eyes meet John's and he watches as John nods his head minutely, giving him permission to continue and share his deductions. "He's especially fond of 'Silent Night' in any form," he continues, "but especially the version I play on my violin at 3 am."

"Then why is he grim-"

"What John does not like, however," Sherlock blazes on, cutting off Greg's half-formed question, "is needless repetition. He finds it dull. Boring. Rightfully so. And seeing as this particular version of this particular song has played not once but, " Sherlock paused for a moment, "_seven_ times so far this evening, I'd say it's only natural that John is grumpy. Pair that with the fact that we've spent the better part of the last three hours running through London while it snowed to solve the case for you, I believe it is safe to say that it's a veritable Christmas Miracle that John hasn't wrung anyone's neck yet."

Lestrade gaped at Sherlock and let his hand fall from John's shoulder to dangle loosely at his side.

"So, if you'll excuse us, I'm going to take this one home before he freezes to death seeing as he forgot both his gloves and his scarf," Sherlock said, turning with yet another flourish of his great coat as he stalked to the road to attempt to hail a taxi.

"You'll never get one," the clerk from the store they'd helped said, peeking out of the front door, a broom clenched firmly in his hand. "All the ones that are out are full. So I've taken the liberty of calling an alternate form of transportation."

Sherlock turned and frowned at him. "Alternate form of transportation?" he asked. "On Christmas eve?"

The clerk nodded and pointed a knobby finger towards the end of the road. "Just you wait. They'll be here any minute, and then you and your boyfriend can head home."

"He's not my boyfriend," John grumbled, crossing his arms as he turned to stare dumbfounded at the end of the road, his eyes widening as a horse-drawn carriage rounded the corner and made it's way towards them.

Sherlock shot a dirty look towards the store clerk, only to find that he'd disappeared back into his shop. Sighing, he pushed his way past Lestrade, his doubled-over form wracked with hysterical laughing, to climb up into the carriage.

John was ushered to join him a moment later by the carriage driver, his face devoid of any obvious emotions.

As the carriage driver blathered about, spouting useless facts about horses and carriages and snow, John and Sherlock got settled, squeezing themselves onto the single bench. A pair of thermoses were pushed unceremoniously into Sherlock's arms as John gave the driver their address. And then, as quick as he'd appeared in the carriage, the driver was gone and they were moving.

"So, what's in those, then?" John asked, gesturing to the metal tins.

"Something warm," Sherlock replied, his fingers drumming rhythmically against the metal. "Likely hot chocolate and spiced cider." He handed one of the thermoses to John and watched as he unscrewed the lid to take a small sip of the hot liquid, his adam's apple bobbing and eyes fluttering shut as a pleased hum rumbled from his throat.

"Cor, this is good. You should have some of yours," John said, his breath a wispy cloud between them as he spoke. "It'll help warm you up at least."

Mechanically, Sherlock mimicked John's earlier actions, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip. Hot chocolate. Dull. Just as he predicted. The drink was just as sweet and creamy as he remembered it being from his childhood. His mind quickly filled with various memories of past family Christmases. He'd loved hot chocolate then, and drank a small mug of it every night before mummy tucked him into bed.

He was brought out of his memories by a swipe of flesh over the corner of his mouth.

"John?" he asked, his voice soft.

"You had some marshmallow, don't worry about it," John replied, bringing his white-tipped thumb to his mouth to suck off the sticky-sweet residue. "Go back to your mind palace, or wherever you were."

Sherlock tilted his head and watched as John turned away, his thermos pressed against the seam of his mouth. He couldn't help but watch as John swallowed mouthful after mouthful of the hot liquid, color blooming high on his cheeks. While John never had to do much to gain Sherlock's attention, Sherlock found that he couldn't look away now; John was absolutely mesmerizing in the snow. When John started shivering, Sherlock noticed immediately, his hands working on auto-pilot to remove his scarf from his own neck and wrap it loosely around John's.

"Sherlock, what are you-"

"You're cold," Sherlock murmured simply, reaching up to pop the collar of his coat.

John gaped at the dark-haired man beside him. "Thank you," he said after a moment, his hands reaching up to clutch at the scarf tentatively. Fingers brushing against the soft cotton, John felt the corners of his mouth draw up into a small smile.

Sherlock found himself returning John's smile as he continued to watch the doctor, even as he turned away. He wasn't sure why John seemed so extraordinary to him, so irreplaceable. At their very first meeting, Sherlock had known that the innocent, gentle, crippled looking man that had limped into his lab room was far more than he appeared. What he had quickly found out, however, is that John was the most entrancing and difficult puzzle that he'd ever encountered. The rest, as they say, had been history.

The remainder of their journey had passed by without notice, Sherlock only realising that they'd arrived at Baker Street when John had jostled his arm and spoke so softly, as if Sherlock would break at any sort of loud noise.

Carefully, he'd clambered down out of the carriage, thermos still clutched in his hand, and watched as the driver took off, light glittering off the back.

"Mmm. Feels good to be home, doesn't it?" John asked, stretching his arms above his head.

Sherlock felt his reply catch in his throat as he looked at John, his thoughts freezing to a staggering halt as he observed. John was lovely in the morning sunrise, the very first honey colored rays of light dancing through the hold and silver of his ruffled hair. John's tired gaze was softened by his thin smile, the skin around his eyes wrinkled and lined with mirth. Sherlock's eyes drifted upwards, taking in everything about John that he could before freezing on the cut of greenery dangling from the top of the doorway, white berries peeking out innocently from between dark, prickly leaves.

"Sherlock?" John called. "What are you looking at?"

"Mistletoe," he breathed, his hands folding into loose balls at his side.

John turned and looked up, a chuckle falling from between parted lips as he saw the plant, no doubt tied up hastily by Mrs. Hudson earlier that night. "Well, would you look at that," John murmured, running a hand through his hair.

"We don't have to do anything," Sherlock said, striding forward to pass through the threshold. He stopped when he felt John's hand catch his sleeve.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson would be disappointed if we didn't keep up with tradition," John breathed, taking a step closer to his flatmate, his grip firm on Sherlock's coat sleeve.

"She's likely asleep at this time, John. She'll never know-"

"And frankly," John interrupted, turning Sherlock so that they face each other, "so would I."

Sherlock's breathing hitched at John's words, his inhale getting caught at the base of his throat. And then, John was leaning closer, his hand sliding up to cup Sherlock's cheek, his breath whisper soft against his lips.

"Merry Christmas Eve," John murmured. Time seemed to stop as John hovered there, his face a hairsbreadth away from Sherlock's, and then he closed the distance and pressed his thin, slightly chapped, cider-spiced lips against Sherlock's plush mouth.

The kiss was chaste and over in a split second, and yet, it left Sherlock reeling on the doorstep as John climbed the steps to retreat into their flat. When he was adequately aware of his surroundings once more, Sherlock pulled the mistletoe from it's hanging place and dashed up the steps to find John puttering in the kitchen, filling the kettle and pulling some eggs from the fridge.

"Do it again," Sherlock murmured, plucking the egg carton from John's hands, setting it down absentmindedly on their kitchen table.

"Do what again?" John asked, reaching for the eggs.

Sherlock caught John's hand and held it, their arms outstretched with Mrs. Hudson's mistletoe plant crushed between their fingers. "What you just did on Mrs. Hudson's doorstep," he said, his eyes boring into John's. "Do it again."

"You mean kiss you? Sherlock, why would I do that?" John asked, his gaze dropping uncomfortably to settle on various objects decorating the mantle.

Slowly, Sherlock dropped John's outstretched hand and raised the mistletoe so that it was hovering above their heads. "Because it's tradition," he murmured, "and I'd be very disappointed if you didn't."

John gaped at him, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "You'd be disappointed?" he questioned, eyes staring in disbelief at the now crushed mistletoe clipping.

Sherlock nodded once. "Very," he murmured, his lips parting slightly on their own.

After a moment, John's free hand reached up and settled on Sherlock's shoulder, pausing for a moment before sliding up to cup his cheek again. "Are you sure?" he breathed, stroking his thumb over Sherlock's zygomatic arch.

"Very," he repeated, leaning his cheek into John's touch.

John's thumb swiped once more over his cheek, and then, just like before, John was leaning up, his lips slightly pursed, and Sherlock couldn't help the sigh of relief that rumbled in his chest as John's lips pressed against his once more.

Unlike before, this kiss lasted a lot longer. John's lips moved gently against Sherlock's, his free hand trembling by his side. And then, Sherlock's head tilted ever so slightly and John was lost to the soft heat of his mouth. His tongue swiped across the seam of Sherlock's mouth, a wordless inquiry, and then Sherlock's lips were parting, and he could taste the hot chocolate, and the peppermint, and the marshmallow, and John was undone.

They broke apart sometime later, chests heaving and mouths bruised, each as speechless as the other. Grinning widely, Sherlock turned and stalked a few paces away to carefully hang the deformed mistletoe in the middle of the archway leading to the kitchen. Once he was pleased with his handiwork, he strode back into the kitchen, leaned down, and kissed John briefly on the lips a third time. "Merry Christmas, John," he murmured before stalking back into the sitting room to pick up his violin.

As Sherlock coaxed the beginning notes of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" from his violin with a cheeky smile, John found that he didn't mind; not in the slightest. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he replied, smiling to himself. "Merry Christmas."


End file.
